May the Best Ex Win

1 | We Need to Talk

The race for student body president at Milton High was a popularity contest, just as much as running for homecoming queen or prom king. And everyone knew the student body had an unspoken agreement: the position belonged to Milton's most popular senior. As a result, whoever had been at the top of the social ladder the longest was the only one who even bothered to sign up.

This year, I, Chloe Peters, was the most popular senior. Part of— scratch that— founder of the "in" crowd, former girlfriend of two sports team captains, and a member of too many extracurriculars to list. If people at Milton knew one name, it was mine. And as someone who'd been eyeing the title of SBP since my first day of freshman year, I was beyond ready to accept the job. 

I'd been expecting an easy win without opposition— someone would have to be insane to run against me. I knew none of my friends were backstabbers who would try to take this away, and I'd been talking about it for months in advance, so anyone who was popular enough to consider running would know about my dibs on the position. But there was one person I didn't plan on: my dumb, annoying, popular-enough-to-make-me-feel-threatened ex-boyfriend, whose name was already on the sign-up sheet when I showed up that morning.

The sun was high, birds were chirping, and Milton high stood proudly, red brick against blue sky. My hair was perfect, outfit pre-planned, smile freshly whitened. I acted the same as always, waving to the people who mattered and ignoring the ones who didn't. But inside, my heart's pace was faster than usual. Another chance to seal my status as Milton's queen bee always managed to get my adrenaline going.

My mary-janes clicked against the tiled floor as I marched to the table set up in the center of the lobby. I made Dad drop me off at school early, way before the busses would deliver the masses. My name at the top of the list would guarantee no one else's afterward. I mean, it would take someone with a frightening lack of intelligence to run against me.

Then again, Preston never was the brightest. His name was already scrawled on the first line in blue ink, barely even legible. 

"Chloe!" Ms. Clements greeted me from her seat behind the table, but I couldn't tear my eyes away from the terrible handwriting. "I can't say I'm surprised to see you signing up. I'm sure you're a shoo-in."

"That bastard," I mumbled, pulling out a pink-inked pen from the front pocket of my messenger bag.

Ms. Clements inhaled sharply as I signed my name neatly on the second line. "What was that, Miss Peters?" 

"Uh, nothing." I shot her a smile once I finished, and hoped it didn't look as forced as it felt. "Thanks, Ms. C! See you in Yearbook."

My fake smile fell as soon as I turned away, heading straight for the west wing. Students parted to let me pass as I stormed down the halls, rage building in me with every step. It wasn't long before I saw Preston, who was sitting in his usual spot near the gym with his sports buddies. I continued my path of fury, only stopping when I was right in front of his crossed legs. 

"I need to talk to you."

He looked up at me, eyebrows furrowed. "Uhhh..."

On any other day his confusion would be justified, but he had to know what this was about. Maybe we hadn't talked in a month, but we had mutual friends— everyone knew I was going to be student body president. People I never even talked to knew. Preston was doing this to spite me, I was sure of it.

"Get up. We need to talk. Now."

Preston sighed impatiently, but stood up. His best friend Hank cringed, wishing the sandy-haired boy good luck before biting into a gross-looking breakfast burrito. I led Preston into an empty locker bank, my head snapping to him once I'd made sure we were alone.

"What do you think you're doing?" I hissed, my eyes boring into his blue ones. The hushed syllables seemed to echo off of the metal lockers.

"I'm sorry?"

"You know I've been planning to run for student body president. Everyone knows. So my question is, why is your name at the top of the sign-up sheet?"

His eyes rolled, a soft scoff coming from his lips. "You're not the only one who gets to run, Chloe. It's called a democracy for a reason."

"What is this, some kind of revenge?" I squinted at him, trying to read whatever angle he was playing.

"Revenge? For what?" He laughed, shaking his head. "Maybe you're forgetting, but I broke up with you. I've got nothing to get revenge for."

"Don't patronize me, Preston."

"Have you considered that maybe, just maybe, the reason I signed up has nothing to do with you?" The corner of his mouth raised ever so slightly. I used to find that cute somehow, until I started to see it for what it really was: infuriating. "Who am I kidding, it's you. Of course you didn't. The world revolves around Chloe Peters, every second of every day."

"You are the worst," I seethed through my teeth, fists clenching at my sides. He leaned casually against the red locker behind him, clearly unbothered by the insult. "And I don't believe for a second that you're not trying to humiliate me."

"Big surprise there."

"If you want a competition, then fine. Get ready, Preston. I'm going to rip that self-satisfied smirk right off your face." I smiled before turning away, beginning my walk to first period as a list of preparation tasks already began to form in my head.

Not only was I going to win, I was going to win by such a landslide that Preston McMillan would be ashamed to ever show his face at Milton again. And that will be my first gift to Milton as student body president, I thought with my first genuine smile of the day.